Author's Notes: if any There are allusions to Hamlet in this fic. You don't necessarily have to be familiar with the whole play, just familiar to the idea of death and suicide. Also, this doesn't bash or bastardize Percy in any way.

Credits: The scenario is from the Fic Carnival featuring Oliver/Percy slash by the POWSN yahoo!group. Booth: Ghost Ride. Scenario #9: "How can death be sleep when life is but a dream?" ~John Keats

This fic is based on charaters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. A disclaimer is applied to Shakespeare's Hamlet as well.

The Sorcerer

Chapter 3

the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune

By Dixi Nihil

       

I couldn't breathe.

He was holding my head still, making sure that I was swallowing every drop of urine.

It was revolting.

Yet I was still througout the whole ordeal, letting the hot liquid travel down my throat and into my churning stomach, already filled with wine, the love potion, blood, and semen.

I thought about the time I first read "Hamlet" during the summer before my sixth year. Lucius had told me to read it, insisting that it was one of the most spectacular and brilliant plays ever written in the world, despite the fact a muggle man had written it.

He was right after all. It is a brilliant masterpiece, and now, I could truly sympathize with Hamlet.

To be or not to be...

Of course I had "to be" or else I would have to die. Whenever I contemplated suicide, in the center of my belly I would feel a light, fluttery feeling, as if it was warning me. I also felt that I had to make things right in my family, with myself, and the desire to contribute something good to the Order and to the world. I often tried to tap into my magic, to will my power out and control it with myself. No wand, or any other medium that would channel and dilute the pure substance that was magic.

I was different.

I had known this since childhood. After all, I was the Slytherin boys' personal punching bag.

I would have stirrings in which I could probe at the thoughts of other people and catch fragments of what they were thinking. And then it would vanish, and my world became quiet once more.

I wanted to possess my magic.

And I couldn't possibly do that. If all I could do was see the thoughts of other people, what greatness could I ever possibly achieve? I should have told Voldemort that in the first place, that I couldn't really control my power. Now I'm paying for that little white lie.

The urine burns my throat like acid.

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